


In light of recent events...

by iiscos



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Original Percival Graves, Idk how tags work when most of the sex is imaginary, Light Bondage, M/M, Or at least Newt wants to top him very badly, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22658623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: After nearly a year of rehabilitation, Graves returns to MACUSA, adamant on restoring his rightful position as Director of Magical Security and proving to his detractors that he is still the best man for the job. His newly-found, ungovernable ability to read minds is a distraction at best, especially when someone,somewhereis thinking wildly, inappropriate thoughts about him.
Relationships: Original Percival Graves/Newt Scamander
Comments: 65
Kudos: 571
Collections: Fantastic Beasts and where to find them





	1. Boundary Issues

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled into the fandom like two weeks ago, reading Grindelgraves. But now, I just want Graves to be happy and not think about Grindelwald at all. 
> 
> Some angst will creep into this one, but I really do want to write a light-hearted/funny fic.

Percival Graves was not in a good state when they finally found him, tucked away in some dark, forsaken corner of the world—emaciated, abused, and abandoned to die now that Grindelwald’s ploys were finally unravelling. He did not possess the mental capacity to fully comprehend the damages he had sustained during his months of imprisonment, and for that, he was almost grateful. It took five long months for the healers to mend his body and five more to piece together his mind. And after yet _another_ month of mandated leave of absence—solely for rest, might he add—Graves finally reasoned, threatened, and cajoled his way back to MACUSA, to his rightful place as Director of Magical Security.

Madam Picquery made a point of informing him, and all who worked with or around him, that the replacements she had arranged were temporary. She expressed her full confidence in Graves, believing that he, once recovered, would still be the man most suited for the job. The nightmarish months as Grindelwald’s prisoner would not compromise his judgement but drive his unwavering pursuit for justice. 

He was grateful for her. He even believed her during her public declarations. He also knew that her judgement was impaired—even if subtly—by her guilt of not finding him sooner, of not realizing that one of her most important assets had been replaced. But a swayed decision did not automatically equate to a poor one, and Graves was determined to prove her right. 

He organized his personnel to achieve maximum efficiency. He worked tirelessly to close the unsolved cases that accumulated in his absence. He reimplemented himself among his small, powerful circle of acquaintances—politicians and royalty who could stop the world with a simple snap of their fingers. His presence demanded respect. His words, his ideas gathered audiences. His orders obeyed without insubordination. Everything he had planned had fallen into place, and it was only a matter of time before he restored his rightful position in the hierarchy of power.

So when the voices first drifted into his head, he told _no one_. 

He was not crazy. The simple acknowledgement of this blip in his psyche was an indication of sanity. His magic was unaffected, but more importantly, his wit remained intact. His rhetoric was no less proficient, his stratagems no less astute—a self-assessment, sure, and prone to biases, but no one knew Graves better than himself. And no one was harsher a critic. 

Of course, he did not escape Grindelwald’s imprisonment unscathed. Physically, he was thinner, frailer, his age never more apparent as a few more scars marred his body. And the echos of torture and pain would haunt him for the rest of his life, but he would learn to live with them, just as he had lived after the horrors of the Great War. Trauma, for him, was nothing new.

Graves vowed to ameliorate this situation on his own, to bury it alongside all of his other traumas. He could not afford another miscalculated step, another lapse in judgement. His team needed his leadership, and America, the world needed their protectors.

Two weeks passed as Graves busied himself with analyzing and reviewing the leads uncovered in his absence. The voices did not hinder his progress, but they were often a nuisance, ambushing him in the most inopportune times—during speeches, meetings, public events—situations involving colleagues and powerful, influential people whose opinions of him actually mattered. 

The voices were loud, incessant, garbled at times, and often accompanied by vague images and nonsensical ideas that clearly were not a product of his sane mind. He learned to banish them through sheer force of will, and they did vanish upon command during crucial times to allow him momentary peace when he needed it the most. But suppressing those voices took effort, and Graves found allocating this energy difficult after a grueling assignment or a tedious meeting. And sooner or later, the voices would always trickle through, like water from a cracking dam. 

The weight of exhaustion always felt the heaviest in the evenings, but the voices never bothered him then. In the seclusion of his apartment, he allowed his shoulders to sag and his hands to shake, let slip his veneer of practiced calm. Without the constant murmurs, his mind felt too blank and vast, but in the vacated place, his own voice would flood, always harsher and crueler, inflicting pain and misery in the parts of him that he strived to conceal, parts that he wished could disappear. Potions kept his dreams at bay, but nothing could deter a lucid, conscious mind.

~~

Three frustrating weeks had passed since the onset of his symptoms, and the correlation was glaring, unmistakeable. Graves concluded that something, or someone, at MACUSA must be evoking these obtrusive voices. He could think of several plausible motives—to distract him, to dull the sharpness of his intellect, to render him useless and unreliable to the people who depend on him the most. What kept him from reaching this conclusion sooner was the sheer absurdity, both in principle and in execution. Were the perpetrators hoping to convince Graves that he was insane when all other evidence pointed to the contrary? Did they envision a slow spiral to madness, an ironic but poetic end to a man revered for his acumen? Because Graves was certain that he would sooner implode from the utter nuisance of it all.

Two days into rejecting all food and drink that he didn’t personally prepare, and after inspecting every item in his office for curses, Grave finally considered that perhaps, those voices weren’t simply voices.

Tina Goldstein must have found it strange as she entered his office to see Graves emptying his shelves and reorganizing all of his books. Graves was not expecting her, and in that moment, he may have deviated from the impeccable state that he strived to maintain since his return to the office. Something had alerted her—maybe the crease in his shirt, the hint of mania in his eyes a fraction before the veil of calm, the perspiration dampening his forehead as a single lock of hair fell out of place. The possibilities were endless.

Tina twitched her eyebrows but remained impassive as she greeted him politely, lowering a folder onto his slightly disorganized desk.

What invaded his mind at that moment was more feeling than words. A complicated and conflicted mess of exasperation, worry, helplessness, guilt, and devotion. 

_You are such a stubborn man._

_Would it kill to take better care of yourself?_

_Why must you always push yourself to your limits? Why do you insist on fixing everything alone?_

_I’m sorry. I wish I could have helped. I wish I could help now._

Meanwhile, not a shred of emotion escaped her stoic mask, and Graves made sure that none escaped his.

~~

_The Moore-Anderson case. Closed on January 4th, 1920._

A faint murmur drifted into his thoughts as Graves traversed the tightly clustered cubicles housing this year’s newly promoted Aurors. He froze mid-stride, just outside the workspace of a young Auror shuffling through the loose pages of an assignment file.

He approached her desk, and she failed to notice his presence until he eclipsed her reading light, casting a long shadow over her disorganized notes.

“M-Mr. Graves!” She flinched as he placed a firm hand over her file, effectively closing it.

“When did we solve the Moore-Anderson case?” He asked without preamble.

Her eyes widened, redness rising to her cheeks. “I-I…Well…” 

“Just tell me what first comes to mind.” He waved away her stammers. “It doesn’t matter if you’re wrong.”

“J-January 4th, 1920,” she eventually choked out.

Graves gave the young Auror a tight-lipped smile, pleased. “Thank you,” he nodded, striding away without offering an explanation.

The Moore-Anderson case was closed on January 9th, not January 4th. 

~~

Graves had spent the past few days prodding at his new ability with scrutiny and methodology. He learned things about his Aurors that he had no right, or desire, of knowing—birthdays, weekend plans, petty resentment towards in-laws. And what information he could confirm later almost always rang true.

What quelled the last of his lingering doubts was his conversation with the young Auror over the Moore-Anderson case. If the voices he heard were indeed his own projections, pulled from the wells of his conscious or subconscious mind, then why would he project something obviously _wrong_ to that young woman while he himself was confident of the answer? That incorrect date was decidedly her own creation, and Graves knew what she would say because he had peered into her mind.

As the satisfaction of reaffirming his sanity subsided, Graves was left with the perplexing core of this problem—the incessant, disembodied voices that scraped his nerves raw. He was a decent Legilimen, and Legilimency had undoubtedly proven useful in his line of work. But with traditional Legilimency, he was willfully infringing. And now, he was desperately keeping out.

Graves trusted the people around him, and in return, they trusted him. He did not want to abuse his power or sully a bond forged through years of sacrifice, loyalty, and camaraderie. The mind was perhaps the last scrap of freedom that a person may possess, even when all other freedoms were lost. Within the safeguard reside memories, hopes, ideas—the most intimate and hidden pieces of one’s identity, privy only to them and no one else. And to breach this sacred space, especially that of a friend, and in secrecy and without consent, must be the most horrid violation, the cruelest betrayal.

Determined to block out those voices, Graves fortified his mind to the best of his ability, but his defenses were not perfect yet. Tiny voices and fragmented memories would occasionally scrape through and halt him in his train of thoughts. While grateful that most conveyed harmless drivel, Graves often found himself frustrated and enraged over the flippant thoughts—frequently perverse and indescribably stupid—that wafted through the minds of his Aurors as the days stretched on. He did not care for office gossip or celebrity scandals. And the frequency of such distractions were appalling, especially when his subordinates _knew_ they had reports to complete by the end of the day. Graves wished they would shut up, wished he could just silence them with magic if it weren’t—weren’t for the fact that he would be silencing their _minds_.

In place of anger, he should feel shame. He was the violator, not them, and was in no position to denounce their private thoughts or allow such thoughts to condition his opinions. That would be terribly unfair. If someone had invaded _his_ mind during the the span of the past two weeks, Graves was certain they would suspect him a homicidal madman by the absurd number of times he had contemplated murder.

~~

Months passed as summer drifted into fall. Graves endured his condition in silence but was privately pleased by how much he had improved with discipline and patience. The effort required to maintain his defenses had diminished considerably, and rarely now did he suffer unwanted distractions as he commanded his department with confidence and proficiency. His team was riding high on successful back-to-back raids that led to the capture of one of Grindelwald’s most notorious acolytes. Their triumph couldn’t have come at a better time, just a week before the much anticipated conference between the International Confederation of Wizards, hosted in New York this year.

Graves reviewed the reports on their investigation, smiling contently as he took his time to enjoy his coffee for once. His mood only improved when noon drew near, as a familiar owl tapped against his windowpane, a letter with a familiar seal in tow. 

~~

By the time he descended to the MACUSA lobby to meet Theseus, Tina was already there—laughing softly at something Theseus had said. Beside Theseus was another man—the younger Scamander, no doubt—slightly shorter with matching copper hair, his posture demure beneath a worn coat at least two sizes too big.

Theseus noticed Graves first, breaking into a grin. Tina turned to him and smiled, a touch shyer as her director joined their circle. And before Graves could exchange a single word with his old friend, he felt a breech in his mental barriers by something sharp and raw. He immediately locked eyes with the younger Scamander, whose look of alarm tilted his balance, his defenses wavering a fraction as foreign visions swept through…

_Desperation, helplessness, fear as Aurors apprehended him, pulling Tina away…_

_An image of Graves standing powerful and tall, a veil of cruel disdain over impassive features, wand raised and ready to execute…_

_Fury, despair as powerful spells descended on the shadow of a boy in pain, shredding him without pity, into pieces, into nothing..._

Graves only caught the end of Theseus’ sentence as his mind snapped back to reality. 

“Yes, of course,” he responded quickly, hoping not to have missed a beat to arouse suspicion. “How rude of me to not have responded to your last letter. But I figured you would be here in person, and so soon, that I—”

“Never one to recognize a joke, are you, old man?” Theseus silenced him with a sharp laugh, squeezing his shoulder in an affectionate gesture. His grin remained even as his eyes softened, gently adding, “You look well, my friend.” 

“I—I am well. Thank you, ” Graves stammered, out of character, his attention split three-ways between Theseus’ expecting smile, Tina’s concerned frown, and Newt Scamander—who was no longer looking at him.

Graves breathed out a small laugh and cleared his throat, posture straightening as he extended a hand. 

“Mr. Scamander,” he nodded curtly. “Glad to have you with us.”

Newt jolted, visibly surprised that he was the Scamander that the director had been addressing. He caught himself in time to grab Graves’ hand, although with more strength and velocity than either had anticipated.

“Mr. Graves,” he returned, wide-eyed.

Between them, Theseus chuckled. “And I was just about to introduce you two.”

“No need for introductions now, is there?” Graves smiled as Newt struggled to settle his gaze somewhere, anywhere other than on the director’s eyes. “I’ve heard great things about you, and not just from Tina or your brother. Although, I do believe this is the first time we have formally met.”

He squeezed Newt’s hand after his last statement before releasing, hoping to have emphasized his final point. Newt, still fixated on the angle of Graves’ left cheekbone, slipped a timid smile.

After a few more minutes of cordial exchanges, Tina pulled Newt away, perhaps recognizing her director’s desire to reacquaint with his old friend alone. They continued their conversations in Graves’ office, Theseus taking the armchair facing the director’s desk. Graves poured each of them a glass of whiskey, sensing a strum of excitement radiating from Theseus’ outwardly calm appearance. He handed his guest a glass and opted to stand rather than to sit, leaning his tailbone against the edge of the desk, sharing his friend’s gaiety and wishing to be closer.

They bonded over stories of what had passed in each other’s absence. Theseus described their progress with the mysterious creature attacks in London, generous in his praise of his younger brother and his involvement as a valued Ministry consultant.

Tina had aided in that case as well, the perpetrator likely an American smuggler. Further collaborations between MACUSA and MOM were underway, both ministries having taken impressive strides in promoting unity and transparency between allies. In fact, the primary goal of the week-long conference was to persuade other allies to do the same. 

“Newt and Tina would make appropriate liaisons,” Theseus mused, swirling the amber brown liquid before bringing the glass to his lips.

Graves nodded in agreement. “They do seem to have formed a fast friendship, your brother and my—“ 

The rest of the sentence halted in his throat, his mind scrambling for an appropriate ending.

“Your friend,” Theseus provided. “Please, just call Tina your friend. She considers _you_ a friend.”

Graves heaved a world-weary sigh. “I care for her as a friend would, but it feels inappropriate to bridge that distance. I am nearly twice her age and also her superior.”

“Twice her age? Merlin, you can’t be that old,” Theseus chaffed, as if the three years separating him and Graves divided a generation. 

“You are such a stick-in-the-mud,” he continued with a shake of his head, “Director of Magical Security, Percival. You have very few peers if you stick to the strictest definition—Picquery above you, and everyone else below. And don’t pretend you would spare a second for anyone outside your department, other than for work.”

“I consider you my peer,” Graves pointed out, amused by the rare show of animation from his friend.

“Slim pickings,” Theseus scoffed, draining the last splashes of his whiskey.

Graves offered to pour him another and did so when Theseus failed to respond, distracted by whatever thought now occupied his mind.

“I’ve mentioned my brother enough times in the past decade. Was today truly the first time you’ve met?”

“Well, there was the War,” Graves reasoned, turning his own glass to watch the fog vanish where his lips had just touched. “The long recovery after. Then, Grindelwald and his followers resurfaced, and—”

“I know,” Theseus said before he could reach an end. Graves felt a sympathetic squeeze just above his knee. “I’m glad you are acquainted now.”

Graves counted the passing beats of silence before speaking again, his words careful and premeditated. “As perceptive as you are, you must have noticed the way your brother reacted when he saw me.”

“Is that what’s eating at you?” Theseus let out a surprised laugh, teasing but not unkind. “Well, as you’ve made it clear, this _is_ the first time you’ve met. Newt is a smart boy, and a kind one before that. He will not hold anything against you, especially circumstances beyond your control.”

Graves smiled, more at his glass than at Theseus. This was the confirmation he had expected, although now, he felt embarrassed to have sought it in the first place. 

“Ask him about his creatures next time,” Theseus suggested, “He’ll love that.”

“Really?” It was Graves’ turn to laugh. “Question him about his creatures. As the Director of Magical Security at MACUSA.”

“You don’t have to be the Director of Magical Security when you talk to him.”

Graves took a long moment to mull over that. 

“Percival,” Theseus insisted upon his hesitation, “I know my brother, and I know you. He reads people better than he lets on, and he will see that you are nothing like—like that madman who wore your disguise.”

Theseus looked as surprised as Graves for having alluded to those missing months so directly. Nearly two years had passed since, and Graves wanted to move on, believed himself to have already. But the shadows of guilt weighing over the people closest to him—despite their best efforts to bury beneath kindness, perseverance, and strength—those served a more potent reminder than any memories or nightmares of his own.

Theseus cleared his throat, conflicted and embarrassed with an apology on the tip of his tongue. Graves beat him to breaking their silence, his hand gripping his friend’s shoulder, encouraging him to relax. 

“Of course,” Graves said gently, in hopes of acknowledging and comforting everything that lingered unsaid between them. “I know, old friend.” 

Theseus sighed, somewhere between self-deprecation and relief. He looked up at Graves from where he sat, the weariness in his eyes spoke greater volumes than any of his playful banters, his confident facade. 

~~

The welcome reception was a stiff and ritzy affair. Two hours in and Graves had already found himself sliding passed the double doors to the balcony and down to the gardens below. Concealed by the shadows of an ancient tree and hidden in an alcove beyond the views of the reception hall, he lit his cigarette, hoping to have escaped Tina’s notice, and therefore, her disappointment. 

Beyond the hedges that initially obstructed his view, Graves noticed a figure hunched over in the darkness, desperately beseeching something small and likely out of reach.

“Please don’t do this, not tonight. You’ll get me into deep trouble with Tina. And Theseus.”

Even if the context of those whispers gave no indication, the battered suitcase beside its owner certainly did. Graves made no effort in concealing his presence as he parted the greenery and stepped into view. 

Newt Scamander flinched upon hearing his footsteps, spinning around and shooting up to stand at a comical speed. 

“M-Mr. Graves,” he stammered, recognizing him immediately. 

“Mr. Scamander,” Graves returned.

Anxiety rolled off the young man in waves, and Graves couldn’t help but smirk as he inspected the shy, awkward figure before him, shuffling inside a fitted suit that somehow appeared less fitted than his usual oversized coat. The product in his hair was peculiar and ineffective in taming his rebellious curls. Newt Scamander looked like a strange imitation of Theseus, a costume a younger brother might wear in idolization of the elder. 

“Tina chose these for me,” Newt provided the answer to the unspoken question, as if fully acknowledging the ridiculousness of his appearance. 

“Understandable,” Graves mused.

“She told me you quit smoking,” he then said, just as Graves took drag, the tip of his cigarette burning like candle light in the darkness between them.

“Did she now?” He responded, leaning his head in an attempt to look around the young man, obviously uncommitted to the actual topic of their conversation. “What else has she told you about me?”

Newt edged further away, hiding the evidence of his misfortune or misdeed like a guilty schoolboy. 

“It’s just a Niffler,” he spilled once Graves was close enough and confrontation was inevitable. “He’s harmless.”

Graves took another drag and exhaled, pretending to consider his options. “How about we strike a deal? You keep hush about my cigarette, and I won’t say a word about your Niffler and what deep trouble he may have gotten you into, with Theseus and Tina.”

Newt, in his surprise, actually met his eyes. He soon flickered away, conflicted and distrustful towards authority. Graves had expected such and therefore, should not feel disappointed. 

“I just need him to come out,” Newt mumbled to the vicinity of Graves’ left shoulder. “He got hold of a ring, and I need to return it before anyone finds out.”

“He likes jewelry?” 

“Anything shiny, really.”

“May I?” Graves asked once he stood only a yard away, and Newt showed no intention of moving. 

The magizoologist inhaled deeply, nodded, and stepped aside.

Wandlessly, Graves casted a weak Lumos and glanced in Newt’s direction, waiting for objections and receiving none. The gentle ball of light floated above the crevice beneath the winding roots of a large oak, where the creature had presumably taken solace. Graves held the cigarette between his lips as he loosened his tie beneath his vest. 

“Will this tie clip do?” He asked as he lowered the gleaming bar of silver before the opening, leaving some distance but close enough to tempt.

He heard a rustle within the shadows, a hint of dark fur and tiny nimble paws. 

Graves reached beneath the sleeves of his suit, unclasping the metal there. “What about a cufflink?” 

This time, the tip of a snout came into view, pointed curiously towards the opening.

“You drive a hard bargain, my friend,” he sighed, lowering the other cufflink to complete the pair. “You may have the other too.”

Graves caught himself only then, that he had been engaging in a one-sided conversation with a creature that certainly lacked any grasp of the English language. He did not feel the embarrassment he had anticipated. The intent was to amuse the young magizoologist and another sideway glance showed that Newt was indeed amused. 

_Ask him about his creatures_ , Theseus had said, _try not to be your usual tight-arsed, rule-advocating self._

A childhood without siblings or other children, Graves wondered if he had managed a proper job of humoring the younger without sounding patronizing.

The speed at which the Niffler lunged out into the open nearly caught the director off guard. Reflexes lightning quick from decades of dueling, Graves pulled the trinkets just beyond the reach of those grabby, little hands—whirling the silver objects around the creature, teasing, and floating them just above.

“Now, now,” Graves said patiently, once the creature had calmed down, settling on his haunches and watching the director with expectant, beady eyes. “You may have these in exchange for the ring that Mr. Scamander very much needs.”

The Niffler appeared thoughtful, and Graves could almost imagine the tiny cogs of the creature’s mind turning. And to his utter amazement, the Niffler—understanding somehow the choices before him—reached into his pouch and extracted a band of gold.

He returned his expectant eyes to Graves, once the ring was placed in the matted earth between them. 

Graves released his magical hold on the tie clip and cufflinks before summoning the ring into his open palm. The Niffler, apparently satisfied with their exchange, scurried back to Newt, crawling up his leg and torso before settling in the crook of his shoulder. 

Newt, in his awe, held his eyes to Graves’ for longer than the director had imagined possible.

Graves cleared his throat and smoothed the invisible creases from his suit jacket, returning to his habitual formality and poise. “You don’t have to look so surprised, Mr. Scamander. I am an excellent negotiator.”

Newt laughed, incredulous. Softer and more self-aware, but he sounded so much like Theseus then. “You exchanged your tie clip and cufflinks. I would say you’re a terrible negotiator.”

“Maybe,” Graves chuckled, “But I think I also exchanged for you a night of peace from this odd creature.”

“I suppose,” Newt said through his smile, shaking his head. “Thank you, Mr. Graves.”

The director took his last drag, hiding the small quirk of his lips behind his cigarette. He fought the temptation to lower his defenses, if only for a moment, to see if Newt Scamander now recognized him as he was, in place of the madman who had stolen his life, his image, who had nearly sentenced him and Tina to death.

~~

Graves could not keep all the voices out, standing at the center of an auditorium before hundreds of powerful witches and wizards, countless eyes on him—surveying, scrutinizing. He and the other trusted advisors accompanied their president as she gave the welcome speech. As a contributor to the draft, Graves had the words memorized by heart, dutifully following along as he predicted every inflection, pause, and calculated display of emotion.

Thoughts belonging to faceless strangers simmered beneath his own—some respectful, others reluctantly impressed. The hints of resentment and jealousy made him smirk, even if subtly, beneath his proud mask. Countless had anticipated his failure, others wished him replaced. But here he was, untouchable once more, a living rebuke to all those who had deemed him broken, dismissed him as outdated and obsolete. 

As the speech progressed, foreign visions continued to float—feathery, ephemeral, and inconsequential as he brushed them away with ease—until one peculiar thought flared against his barriers, immovable and eager as it forced itself known.

_Fingers in his hair, pulling…_

Graves inwardly flinched, the intruding image triggering his defenses as his hand twitched for his concealed wand. He scanned across the countless faces on high alert. A turncoat, perhaps. A threat, or—

_A hand along his jaw, urging him to look up as a thumb swiped across his parted lower lip…_

Graves blinked, furrowing his brows. The follow-up was unanticipated. Not a threat. Not quite, but—

_Strong hands at his collar, ripping his shirt open as loose buttons lay strewn, leaving him exposed to eager hands on his chest, across his stomach, teasing the trail of hair beneath his navel…_

Rage broiled to the surface as realization sank in. A daydream. A _sexual_ fantasy. About _him_. He continued to scan the audience but for an entirely different reason, face calm despite his blood fizzling.

_Breath hot against his ear, a wet lap of tongue just beneath, long fingers framing his ribs, thumbs lazily strumming sensitive nipples…_

The director swallowed thickly, his body warm beneath the stuffy layers of his sophisticated attire. Who could this be? How can anyone be so depraved? And during Madam Picquery’s speech at the international confederation, no less. This idiot, whomever they might be, should be listening and not—

_An eager mouth, hot and wet, keeping his thighs apart. Lapping and sucking him through the drenched cotton of his briefs. He keened, wanting to thrust forward or to pull away, he wasn’t sure. But he couldn’t move, not when his wrists were bound at the small of his back..._

Graves felt a twist on his insides before shoving it violently away, despising this person almost as much as he despised himself, for even reacting. He could not let his mask slip—not now. Not when he was merely a yard away from the president, on one of the grandest platforms of the political wizarding world. His best Aurors were in the audience, along with representatives from every allied country. Theseus too, beside British officials and at least five members of the Wizengamot.

So preoccupied in his effort to remain stoic, Graves nearly missed his introduction as Picquery turned to face him, her smile cool and dignified. The applause around them died to a hallowing silence, and the sudden reminder of where he exactly was and what he was supposed to do sobered him considerably, easing the tightness in his trousers as he stepped forward.

Right. He was here to receive some pointless, garish award.

Graves felt his body jolt into action despite his mind still somewhat stunned, nodding curtly at Picquery as he replaced her before the podium. The ostentatious plaque, he accepted with grace but stowed at his side before delivering his speech, for he truly did not wish to be photographed with it. All eyes now on him as his voice reverberated across the expectant silence, his practiced words instinctual to the point of muscle memory.

“Thank you, Madame President. It is with great honor that I accept this recognition.”

_Lips brush the head of his cock, tongue flicking at the slit where precome had gathered…_

Graves forced his voice steady, even as the blood in his veins churned ice cold, his stomach souring with dread. “I am humbled to stand before this audience as a representative to a new wave of progress—” 

_Engulfed by the heat of a wet, relentless mouth, his balls drew tight, but a sharp press at the base kept him from teetering over the edge..._

“—made possible only by the diligence, bravery, and sacrifice of the hundreds of distinguished witches and wizards—”

_Tongue now lapping at the soft, hidden skin beneath his scrotum, a finger tracing feather light circles along his rim..._

“—with whom I have had the privilege of working since my return.” He gritted out the last bit, jaws clenched and nostrils flaring. It took a momentous effort to remain calm and continue. “This distinction bestowed must be shared between the commendable members of my team—”

_A thumb, slippery with lube, pressed into the initial resistance of his unyielding entrance..._

“—the Ministry who honors us with their confidence and support—”

_Soon joined by another as they opened him, spreading him apart..._

“—and of course, our English brothers overseas—”

_The first tentative press of a soft tongue left him shivering…_

“—with whom merit must be equally shared, for victory—”

_A hot wet mouth, encouraged by his moans, devoured him completely, teeth scraping his rim, tongue fucking him open..._

“—would not be possible without our collaborative pursuit of justice and peace.”

Graves felt sweat gathering at his hairline, his magic threatening to erupt beneath his too-tight skin. He could not stand to be on this stage a moment longer, as he slammed his plaque atop the podium—the marble encasing already on the brink of cracking beneath his vice grip. The loud clatter reverberated across the auditorium, amplified by the bare walls and the hollow domed ceiling. Several people jolted in their seats, and Graves prayed that the pervert be among them, so the wretched fantasies would cease long enough for him to make his exit.

“I give my thanks on behalf of all who have made this convention possible,” he concluded, fighting the urge to rush through his final statement. “And call upon further collective efforts between allies, so together we may combat the greatest evils that threaten the welfare of our nations.”

Applause trailed him as he descended the stage, dropping stiffly into his seat beside Madam Picquery. Even if she thought his behavior strange, she was not concerned enough to spare him a side glance. Tina’s eyes bore into the back of his skull, sharp and relentless, pricking the hairs at his neck. She, at the very least, must have noticed his inexplicable decision to abridge his speech.


	2. Like Minds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I thought I could finish in two parts, but this story is getting away from me.
> 
> It's also becoming less sexy and more dramatic than I intended, but I wanted to be realistic despite the silly premise - so here we are.
> 
> I am fairly confident I can finish in three parts, though.

Percival Graves was a powerful man—an outstanding Auror in his days, a distinguished veteran of the Great War, Director of Magical Security, head of the DLME, and one of the president’s most trusted advisors. Throughout his law enforcement career, many had praised him as a once-in-a-generation talent, but what truly set Graves apart from his contemporaries were his mastery and control—the core of his brilliance more cerebral than raw magical strength.

Graves valued control, not because he wished to control others, but because he wanted control over himself, over any situation he might encounter in his high-risk line of work. He was a good leader due to his shrewdness in anticipating the unknown, proficiency in finding order among chaos, and honor in using his power and influence to protect rather than to harm. His decisions, however clever and unpredictable, were always preceded by careful deliberation, often unseen and under appreciated by casual observers.

Therefore, it should not come as a terrible surprise that caution and planning underlie the private sectors of his life as well. As a younger man, Graves had his fair share of rendezvous despite his reputation of being too proud, distant, or aloof to court the numerous young women striving for his attention. In reality, Graves was only careful. He withheld his advances until he was certain, quietly assessing his options rather than plunging in like a fool, heart and soul on display. For every person he had courted, just as many had courted him, people who grew tired of waiting, tired of his outward disinterest.

There were a few brief but memorable relationships that began that way, with the brave young woman making the first move. But Graves always sought to ease the pressure of courtship as they progressed, donning his expected role as the gentleman—confident but considerate, receptive despite taking charge.

Nevertheless—deeply, privately—Graves had always thought himself reserved, even a touch shy. 

Courtship. Graves couldn’t really compare those horrid fantasies to courtship, even if someone, somewhere desired him very much. Never before had he been harassed and objectified so completely. Well into his middle age, and graying, and a _man_ , Graves was baffled by how anyone would choose him as the subject of their perversions. And why?

Trapped as he was in an auditorium filled to capacity, assaulted by increasingly more sordid visions of himself, by the third day, the director was at his wits’ end.

Despite his thorough awareness that no good will come from him knowing, Graves began gathering clues as to whom this person might be. The coinciding with the international convention would suggest that the culprit was a foreign delegate. Graves was dealing with someone strong-willed enough to overwhelm his defenses, someone so shameless that they had no qualms with summoning perverted fantasies inside an auditorium filled with people. The timing of the fantasies was also predictable—usually 10 or 15 minutes after the speaker had begun. This person had no appreciation for wizarding politics, and the fantasies are likely a product of boredom—

_Blindfolded, wrists cuffed to the headboard, knees pushed apart on either side of him as a hard cock filled him inch by inch, excruciatingly slow. He trembled, muscles tight from anticipation, his breath a shuddering sigh. The first thrust was gentle but measured, pressing against his prostate deliberately, drawing out a whine from him despite his best efforts to remain quiet._

_“Tell me, have you ever been taken before?”_

A groan nearly escaped him as his mind whirled back to the present. The voice was a new addition—low and smooth, nearly a purr. He thought it sounded familiar but he could not put a face to it. Could it be someone he had already spoken to at the convention?

The delegate from France droned on but the second half of his proposal was completely lost to Graves. No new visions plagued him that morning, but the question hung over him like a shroud, forcing Graves to acknowledge it, to provide an answer.

No. He had not been taken before.

~~

On his way back from the morning conference, Graves crossed paths with Queenie Goldstein in the MACUSA lobby. She smiled, recognizing him before he could place her.

 _Tina’s sister_ , his brain eventually provided, as he returned a short nod. Having no intention of pausing or exchanging pleasantries, Graves really should have looked away sooner, but something about her kept him fixated, the way she seemed a touch sad and watery beneath her smile.

And in that precise moment, just as Queenie’s smile was beginning to wilt beneath the weight of his gaze, the mental barriers he had worked so hard to fortify for the past few months collapsed rather spectacularly.

Graves froze mid-step, unable to look away. Queenie let out a small gasp, her eyes saucer wide.

_An argument with Tina over lunch had left her distraught, hurt..._

_She wished Tina would listen to her, learn to trust her more—_

_No_ , Graves commanded himself, gritting his teeth as he forced out the obtrusive thoughts. The effort left him disorientated, but something still was not quite right, as he and Queenie continued to stare at each other. The memories were gone but Queenie was still here, still in his head, in the vast emptiness where his own thoughts now spilled.

Queenie Goldstein could also see into _his_ mind.

Panic nearly choked him as he came to the realization. Graves scrambled to organize his thoughts, fortifying his defenses around the archives of classified materials locked away in his memory—names and faces of potential targets, strategies for the upcoming raids, crucial information that could jeopardize entire operations if leaked somehow.

He tried to fill the space with something else, something banal and harmless. He only needed a moment to gather his wits, and anything would do, anything but—

_“Tell me, have you ever been taken before?”_

Graves squeezed his eyes shut, horrified as his mind unfathomably began to replay those wretched visions of him—desperate, pliant, and shamelessly submissive—as an unseen force ravished him. Humiliation coursed through his veins, scalding hot. For fuck’s sake, he needed to pull himself together and apologize to Queenie Goldstein for showing her the absolute worst, most damnable memories he could conjure, until—until they suddenly weren’t.

_The foul taste of blood and bile in his mouth, shadowed figures towering over him as he scrabbled on the floor, writhing in pain…Crucio!_

_A madman wearing his face, tilting his chin with mocking tenderness, taunting him, “Would you rather die or watch the world come apart at the seams? Both will happen, but do you have a preferred order?”_

_Throat raw from screaming, he couldn’t hear, couldn’t see. They had reached into his mind, ripping away the parts of him they needed and leaving everything else broken, in disarray…_

_And then, in a blink of an eye, he was back on the Western Front, buried beneath the mud of the trenches in an awful stalemate where young men died for a politicians’ war. The stench of the dead wafted through the frigid air, their bodies irretrievable and rotting in no man’s land…_

_Stop, for the love of God_ , Graves gritted—berating, begging—until he finally managed to force shut his mind, imprisoning his spilled secrets behind the cellar doors of control.

Breath labored, cold sweat dampening his shirt, Graves finally opened his eyes to find Queenie trembling before him, face pale and eyes brimmed with tears, threatening to spill. He rushed to her before her knees could give out, circling his arm around her waist to keep her on her feet.

“I am so sorry, Miss Goldstein,” he whispered just as she collapsed against him, wailing into the fabric of his coat.

He slid his palm across her back in a weak attempt to comfort, scanning their surrounding and catching the eyes of several bystanders in the lobby, whose attention was seized by their strange exchange. His glare was enough to drive most of them away, but furtive whispers persisted in the tense air around them.

“Please, Miss Goldstein,” he continued once her tremors appeared to subside, “Can we talk in my office?”

~~

Graves rescheduled a debriefing in order to make time for Queenie Goldstein. He knew he had to say something to her, but so much had unfolded during those brief seconds that Graves was at a loss as to where he should begin.

The issue of those unwanted sexual fantasies forced upon him seemed secondary, now that he had found another person in the same precarious situation as him. He realized that together, they risked thoroughly demolishing each other’s barriers if they were to engage—even subconsciously—in any sort of mental tug-o-war.

Queenie had been a natural Legilimen since her early years at Ilvermorny, as much of a blessing as it was a curse. Ever since losing their parents, Tina had grown immensely protective of her sister, due to the danger her ability could attract and the multitude of ways it could be abused. The issue of Queenie’s Legilimency was the subject of their argument earlier. Tina had wanted her sister to stay away from MACUSA during the international convention, fearing that Queenie might unwittingly acquire classified information that could put her in harm’s way.

And Graves supposed that she nearly did.

The hour spent with Queenie had disrupted his meticulously planned afternoon, but she had also brought him calm. So rarely these days did he find sympathy without pity, understanding without a grueling demand for details or explanation. They parted on good terms, although a slight tremor lingered on Queenie’s delicate frame as she smiled and bid her farewell. Graves did not spare much thought on that, until mid-afternoon the next day, when the temperature in his office notably dropped two degrees the moment Tina stepped in. He looked up from his desk and grimaced.

In hindsight, he should have anticipated such, given Tina’s protectiveness over her sister and the way she had been in a perpetual state of worry since Graves’ return, watching him like a hawk despite saying very little. Her indignation was a relentless force against his barriers, and he struggled to keep her out, not wanting to find answers that way. Despite his efforts, fragments of her thoughts pinched through, and what he saw and felt from her mortified him to the core.

_She returned home, expecting ire from her sister, a continuation of the argument that had erupted earlier in the day. Instead, she found Queenie quiet and subdued, avoidant when Tina expressed her concerns…_

_Whispers of gossip from the receptionists in the lobby, about a pretty young thing who wept in the director’s arms before being led away by his quiet persuasion…_

_A few clipped answers from his secretary bolstered her worst fears—Graves had returned to his office with Queenie, where they remained behind closed doors for over an hour, the debriefing he had scheduled pushed to a later time…_

“No!” he exclaimed aloud, despite not having traded with her a single word of greeting. Graves pinched the bridge of his nose, wincing as he forced out the rest of the horrid sentence. “It is not what you think.”

“What is not?” Tina furrowed her brows.

“What transpired yesterday between your sister and myself. It is not what you think.”

He sounded ashamed and nervous, utterly unprepared for this confrontation. Anger, hurt, and betrayal simmered beneath Tina’s tight-lipped frown. Graves did not need to invade her thoughts to know that she did not believe him, his stammering words a greater advocate of a guilty conscience than the truth.

“Your sister and I—” _Are alike_ , he wanted to say, _share a similar obstacle_. Both he knew were laughable understatements, weak and easily misconstrued

“I apologize for upsetting your sister,” he tried again, “But not in the manner that you are suspecting. I simply needed to talk to her and—I thought—”

Not often did words fail him, and Graves could find no other way to disentangle himself from her understandably venomous, albeit misinformed, accusation without revealing to her the entire truth. Finding their situation dangerously precarious, Graves decided that action may be more impactful than anything he could say.

“What did you have for lunch?”

“What?” Tina startled, the sudden unrelated question throwing her off-kilter.

“Soup and sandwich from the 2nd Ave deli,” he answered in her place.

“How did you—“

“Where do you keep your portkey to the British ministry?” He interrupted her with another question and then, answered it before she could even blink. “In your bedroom, beneath the lily pots. I would advise another concealment charm on top of the preexisting disillusionment charm.”

“I don’t understand. I—“

“How many creatures have escaped Newt Scamander’s suitcase since his arrival? Only the Niffler and the Demiguise? That is quite the remarkable feat, although the bar he had set for himself was incredibly low. Still, I must commend him for his efforts—”

“Stop,” Tina pleaded, her voice quivering at the edges, “Please just explain to me what’s going on.”

Graves sighed into the ensuing silence and confessed, softer in his uncertainty, “I thought showing you would be a better explanation as to why I sought to speak with your sister.”

The tension that had held Tina upright appeared to collapse altogether, as she dropped into the armchair before his desk, speechless and distraught. “So you know now—”

“About your sister, yes,” he answered before she could finish and winced at the glare he received. He apologized as he returned his mind to the barricades.

“And you are like her, then?”

“Yes and no. I am still unsure. This is a new development,” he admitted.

“How new?”

“After Grindelwald,” he said and felt guilty as Tina visibly blanched.

“Have you mentioned this to anyone?” Tina asked, but his answer she already knew. Of course Graves didn’t. Of course he chose to bear his burdens alone—too proud or too stubborn to seek help from others. And perhaps, he _could_ prevail without any help; no one was more capable a man than Percival Graves. But he did not _have_ to be alone, opting to do everything the hard way as if he had a point to prove. Why couldn’t such a smart man realize that? What more is there left to prove?

“Aren’t you afraid that this was something planted by Grindelwald?” Tina managed to keep her voice steady, but just barely.

Graves did consider that in the beginning, when he had thought the voices were the ghosts of a broken mind. But now that he knew the cause was overzealous Legilimency—or something akin to that—he could not fathom how this abnormality, as tiresome as it had been, might benefit Grindelwald. Or how it might benefit anyone.

He gained nothing insightful, or even remotely interesting, since the onset of his condition—except for, perhaps, those perverse fantasies. They certainly belonged to someone depraved and infuriating, whom Graves would not hesitate to hex into next week, but at the same time, Graves never considered that person an enemy. Despite the unfamiliar and utterly humiliating positions he had been subjected to, the strong hands holding him down never posed any threat. In fact, most of the activities had been geared towards his pleasure, rather than the other way around.

“I have reasons to believe the contrary,” Graves said instead, the backs of his ears burning.

“You have to see a mind healer.”

“No,” and the response came promptly this time, emphatically.

“You must,” Tina insisted, wringing her hands in frustration, “If you are truly like my sister. I stayed by her during the hardest parts of her mind training. I know what it will entail, and you cannot do this alone.”

“Your sister was a school girl in her fourth year. The circumstances are different.”

And with that retort, something in Tina snapped as she shot straight up to her feet, glowering over his desk, over him.

“Why wouldn’t you see someone, a professional?” Her voice quivered with barely contained rage, “You might not remember the state you were in, but I do. You have scars everywhere, your body, your mind—”

“Don’t you think I, of all people, would know that?” Graves bit back.

“Then why would you take the risk?”

“Seeing a mind healer would be a risk.”

Tina paused at that, face flushed, breathing strained. They had progressed to shouting, Graves realizing only when the sudden silence between them felt gaping. 

“My name, my reputation has already been smeared in the mud when I lost to Grindelwald,” Graves continued, “Many wanted me to resign, and I cannot give them any more ammunition to discredit me.”

“The department, your Aurors—we need you!” Tina protested hotly, pinched with desperation.

“I know.”

“But we need you to be _you_.”

“Do you forget who you are speaking to?” Graves heard his own voice—low and menacingly calm—more like a threat and less like a warning. Tina’s last response provoked something dark, something vicious inside of him. “I am not damaged, Goldstein.”

“Yes—yes, you are! Anyone would be after what you’ve—” Her breath hitched, her voice breaking off into a sob. Beneath the rush of anger, part of Graves was privately impressed by her gall. “But this isn’t something that you— _we_ —can’t fix. We want to help you. Please let us help you!”

“No,” Graves said evenly, allowing his rage to simmer but not overflow. “I can’t— _I won’t_ —allow anyone else inside my mind again.”

Graves had casted a muffling charm before their conversation began so that any words exchanged would be indecipherable to outside listeners. He did not anticipate the yelling, and the lack of a silencing charm was a mere afterthought, until a knock on his door broke their wordless stalemate.

“I have a feeling you’re busy, Percival,” Theseus said on the other side, “I can come back.”

“No,” Graves welcomed the reprieve, unlocking his door with a wordless spell.

Theseus paused at the entrance, his eyes shifting from Graves to Tina and then back. Tina sank back into her chair, deflating once he stepped the room.

“Merlin, do I even want to know?” He jested in good spirits, perhaps trying to lift theirs. He must have heard the shouting, as loud as they had been.

“I’m sorry I am late, but I can go with you now,” Graves said shortly as he rose from his desk, reaching for his coat.

“I believe we are done here, Auror Goldstein,” he concluded, his voice as cold as it had ever been when speaking with Tina.

~~

Graves’ secretary waved him over just as he returned from the fifth day of the international convention.

“An urgent request for an appointment,” she informed him, “Queenie Goldstein.”

There was a hint of amusement in her voice, a knowing look in her eyes, but before Graves could rationalize his sudden irritation with her, as if on cue, a trill of girlish bickering reverberated from down the hall.

“Mr. Graves!” Queenie called out, brightening once she noticed him. Breaking free of Tina’s grasp with reinvigorated effort, she began dashing her way towards him.

Aurors all around them were on high alert, as Queenie propelled forward with remarkable strength, brushing off Tina as she grabbed for her elbow, pulling her back.

“You can’t just barge in like this. You will get stunned!” Tina threatened, despite trying to shield her sister if any spells were to fly their way. “I will personally stun you.”

The director raised a hand, calling for his Aurors to stand down. Unsure of his next move, Graves could only watch and wait as the Goldstein sisters eventually grappled their way to him.

“I’m sorry, director—” Tina said stiffly, just as Queenie exclaimed, “Mr. Graves, please—”

Graves suppressed a grimace as all eyes fell on him, schooling his expression to a dignified calm.

“In my office, if you will, Miss Goldstein. Both Miss Goldsteins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with Queenie/Graves' Legilimency powers, but whatever!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I am also iiscos on tumblr~


	3. Full Disclosure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update! This is the part of a story where I usually struggle to wrap things up, so I had to split a chapter into two again. I really should stop trying to predict how my stories will go, but this time I really think I can finish in one more chapter hahahhh
> 
> And thanks to everyone who has read/commented since the last update! <3

Percival Graves did not forget the silencing charm this time, as he and the Goldstein sisters entered his office to settle their qualms.

“Honestly, Queenie,” Tina sighed with open frustration, “You’re not a mind healer. You can’t possibly believe you have any of the qualifications to—“

“To what?” objected the younger sister, “To help? I’ll know what to do. I’ve spoken with countless mind healers.”

“But that doesn’t make _you_ a mind healer. It’s not the same.”

“I’ve learned to control my powers, Teenie. I have the experience.”

“Mr. Graves is the Director of Magical Security. His well-being is important, as is yours.”

“But if Mr. Graves would see no one else, he should at least see me!”

Both Goldstein sisters turned to Graves then, as if he somehow possessed the answer despite spending the past five minutes slumped in his chair and rubbing away the ache blossoming at his temples. Graves sighed and reevaluated their dilemma in the simplest terms. Queenie wanted to help. Tina wanted him to _get_ help. Graves preferred neither of those options, but if they were ever to emerge from his office, compromises must be made.

“Perhaps, we should clarify our most important conditions,” he said begrudgingly, “So that we could decide on the least intolerable option for the most involved.”

Both sisters agreed that any form of help was better than no help at all. So that was how Graves found himself inside the Goldstein sisters’ apartment, within Newt Scamander’s suitcase, beneath the tall foliage of a bamboo forest, where several Bowtruckles and at least two Occamies had set up habitat.

Perhaps, it was guilt that ultimately persuaded Graves to consent to the farce. He had done a great disservice to both Goldstein sisters. Tina, for hiding his condition and compromising her trust in him as her director and mentor. And Queenie, when he—in a moment of weakness—exposed her to violence and horrors that were in no way her responsibility to acknowledge or bear. He had traumatized the poor girl, but rather than treating him like a pariah, Queenie had insisted that he should accept _her_ help. Her concerns, however relentless and tiresome, came from a place of genuine kindness. Queenie Goldstein was a good person, just like her sister.

Graves was decisively against the inclusion of anyone else in their already convoluted plans, but both sisters maintained that Newt Scamander did not need to know the real reason for their request.

 _The Director needs a quiet, private place to meditate_ , they insisted on telling the Magizoologist, and to Graves’ surprise, Newt agreed to their arrangement without any further persuasion, or at least, not from the Director personally.

Graves supposed they were truthful enough, considering he had done nothing apart from sitting on grass and practicing deep breathing exercises with Queenie Goldstein. They stayed far away from Newt’s creatures and applied no magic during their sessions, with the exception of the pots of flowery potpourri that Queenie had charmed to float around them wherever they went.

“Remember, Mr. Graves, the key is to be in control of your emotions.” Queenie’s sing-song voice drifted from beyond his shuttered eyelids.

“I am in control,” said Graves.

“You need to be calm.”

“I am calm.”

“Relaxed, I mean,” Queenie amended, which prompted Graves to open his eyes and stare at her. He never consider being in control, calm, _and_ relaxed at the same time. That didn’t seem possible.

“The mind is like a Chinese finger trap,” Queenie continued, oblivious to Graves’ scrutiny as her eyes were still closed, “The more you struggle, the harder it is to get away. You have to learn to trust yourself without closing yourself off.”

Despite the nonsensical advice, Graves closed his eyes and struggled a moment longer with the incongruity of being controlled and relaxed at the same time, before his mind inevitably wandered to more thought-provoking topics.

This evening marked the last of the international convention, and starting tomorrow, Graves would be back to his usual routines of overseeing his department and organizing missions. No more tedious, morning-long conferences and stilted small-talk at social gatherings. No more fighting the urge to squirm beneath his clothes as someone, _somewhere_ assaulted him with wildly inappropriate thoughts. It was comforting to know that his life would soon return to normal, regardless of whether Queenie’s meditation exercises would actually fortify his mind. Unless…unless, those sexual fantasies became a recurring theme with each international meeting he attended. The pervert must be someone important to be invited to this convention, and Graves was more than likely to cross paths with him again.

Perhaps, Graves thought, it would be worth finding out whom this person might be after all, just so he could avoid future collaborative efforts.

“Oh, honey,” Queenie chimed, prompting Graves to flutter open his eyes, “Is that what’s bothering you? You are very handsome, Mr. Graves, and sometimes, men just can’t help themselves. It’s not their fault, and it certainly is not yours. You will learn to live with them. Trust me, I know.”

She gave him a wink and a knowing little smile, and Graves wanted to be annoyed and reprimand her for intruding on his thoughts, but the words never quite formed on his lips.

“I should go help Teenie prepare dinner,” she said, rising to her feet and brushing away the wrinkles from the delicate fabric of her dress. “You will stay for dinner, won’t you, Mr. Graves?”

“That’s very kind, Miss Goldstein, but I wouldn’t want to intrude.” Graves heard himself say and wished he had chosen a more irrefutable response.

“Oh, nonsense,” Queenie, as expected, waved away his concerns. “Newt will be joining us, so it would be no trouble at all to set another plate.”

“Well, I—” Graves frowned, just as Queenie casted a shrinking charm on her potpourri pots and stashed them away in her purse. “I suppose we are done for today.”

Queenie’s golden curls bounced as she nodded. “I know this doesn’t seem like much, but it’s something to get used to. You can practice the breathing awhile longer if you’d like. I’ll let you know when dinner is ready.”

And with that, she Disapperated.

Graves found the idea of meditating alone somehow more ridiculous than meditating with Queenie, perhaps because the former would suggest a decision of his own volition, which certainly was not the case here. Instead, he retraced his steps out of the bamboo forrest until Newt Scamander’s cottage came into view. Graves forced away his doubts over permits and safety regulations and took a moment to admire the various ecosystems woven into the expanded suitcase. Newt’s creation felt like the dreamscape of a child, an agglomeration of all the wonders of their natural world—naive, beautiful, and chaotic all at once. Despite the intricate spells, the underlying magic felt coarse and raw—undoubtedly a consequence of Scamander’s unfinished magical training. But what Newt lacked in refinement, he made up for in practicality and creativity. Magizoology was an unconventional field of research, and Newt Scamander had done exceptionally well for himself with his even more unconventional methods.

“Mr. Graves.” Graves heard a hesitant greeting from behind him, as if on cue.

“Mr. Scamander,” he returned, turning to see Newt emerging from the forrest as well. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top and his sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing the tanned, wiry muscles of his forearms. His fingers clutched the handle of a large wooden pale that likely held food for his creatures.

“Is something the matter?” Newt asked, eyes not meeting his—not quite—but Graves could recognize a touch of caution, distrust.

“No,” Graves replied, forcing himself to relax in hopes that Newt would follow in tow. “Nothing is the matter. I was simply admiring your work. It’s quite remarkable, what you have managed here, Mr. Scamander.”

“Queenie told me you needed somewhere quiet to relax,” Newt smiled shyly at the compliment. “I hope you were able to find that here.”

“Miss Goldstein believes so,” Graves gave his best effort to be diplomatic, wishing neither to undermine the Goldstein sisters’ well-wishes nor lie to Newt. “Although, I do hope our presence is not an inconvenience to your work.”

“No, of course not.” Newt shook his head. “The purpose of my suitcase is for rehabilitation.”

“For creatures,” Graves added in Newt’s place, only for the Magizoologist to shrug.

“We are all creatures, are we not?”

Newt approached him then, a fraction too close to be within the boundaries of normal social conduct. Graves stood his ground but couldn’t help feeling cornered by the way Newt edged over him by an inch or two, shrouding him with the heady scent of fresh dirt, cut grass, and a hint of sweat. And Newt, for lack of a better description, leaned into the space just above Graves’ left shoulder and _inhaled_.

“You smell of oleander, Sir.” The hot breath against his ear sent a shiver down his spine. “I would stay away from the pixies. Your scent would drive them into a frenzy.”

Newt stepped away and continued towards the cottage without further explanation. And Graves, once again, found himself at a loss for words.

~~

The evening of the next day, Graves hears a quiet greeting and gentle knock on his door.

“Mr. Graves?”

Graves looked up from his paper work, eye-brows raising when he found a shuffling Magizoologist at entrance of his office.

“Mr. Scamander. I thought you would have left for London by now, with your brother.”

“No, I still have some matters to take care of,” Newt explained, “I—Can I have a word with you, if you’re not terribly busy?”

“Sure,” Graves said, setting his quill down. “Is there something you need?”

Newt had come to his office prepared with paperwork, much to the Director’s amazement. His future assignments would require frequent travel between Europe and the United States, and Newt wished to resolve the conflicts regarding his possession of magical creatures and American laws before beginning his tasks.

“Contrary to popular belief, I do try to abide by the law as much as possible.” Graves could detect a hint of humor in the otherwise bashful voice. “Given that the law is reasonable and just, which often times they are not.”

The Director paused in his perusing of the files, lofting an eyebrow at the quickly reddening young man seated on the other side of his desk. Newt Scamander blinked away, mumbling an apology.

“No need to apologize,” Graves returned his attention to the documents. “I do not write the laws. I enforce them. Given that they are reasonable and just.”

Newt allowed himself a cautious smile, encouraged by the Director's reassuring gesture of solidarity. “I think it’s important to speak for those who cannot speak for themselves. Ones who are often overlooked by laws meant to protect the rights and freedoms of everyone.”

“I do not disagree with you,” said Graves.

“I-I’m here because some of my creatures fall outside of the accepted creatures clause for New York City,” Newt explained, pulling nervously at the sleeves of his ill-fitting coat.

“Which clause?”

“The clause that prohibits without exception any creature whose diet may include humans.”

For a long beat of silence, Graves stared at the young man who in turn, stared at his folded hands before him. “I am under the impression that this law is quite reasonable,” the Director said plainly.

“Not all of the creatures on their restricted list actually consume humans,” Scamander insisted, “Many creatures prefer not to, as humans lack a lot of the nutrients they need. Most of the documented attacks were provoked out of self-defense when humans infringed on their habitat. The Nundu, for example—”

“You have a Nundu in your suitcase?”

“I—“ Rather than providing an answer, Newt waved a hand as if to say that was beside the point. “Nundus do not naturally seek out humans as prey. If they did, there would be many more attacks than what we have documented and far fewer survivors to tell their tales. Much of what is written about them are superstition rather than science. Yes, they are fierce creatures, but in no way should they be classified as man-eaters.”

Graves frowned, concerned and far from persuaded by Newt’s impassioned protest. “You can plead your case, Mr. Scamander, but regardless of my views on this matter, Protection of Magical Species has jurisdiction over creature-related affairs.”

Newt sagged into his seat, chastened. “I’m actually here because Protection of Magical Species won’t even agree to a meeting with me.”

The Director was not surprised. Newt Scamander’s request was outrageous, even to Graves who was at least somewhat accustomed to his eccentricities.

“I was hoping,” Newt hesitated, biting his lip, “That you could put in a word for me. As a favor. Please.”

Graves would not call this a favor, not when Newt Scamander was the one who had exposed Grindelwald’s ruse nearly two years ago and therefore, was a major contributor to Graves’ current well-being. A debt repaid would be a more fitting classification—not that Graves could ever repay Newt for what he had done, for him or for the Wizarding world in wake of his failure as their protector.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Graves sighed, closing Newt’s file and setting it aside. He wasn’t sure if he could (or should) vouch for Newt or his Nundu, but given the circumstances and their history, the least he could do was try.

“Thank you, sir,” Newt smiled, a faint blush tingeing his cheeks.

Graves nodded in acknowledgement, returning to his previously abandoned paperwork. The farewell he had anticipated from the young Magizoologist never came.

“Will you be meeting Queenie tonight?” Newt asked instead.

“Yes, I believe we have an hour arranged for meditation,” Graves answered noncommittally.

“Will you be leaving soon?”

“I will once I complete my paperwork.” Graves casted a wandless _Tempus_ , and only then did he realize how late it was. He would have to leave soon, lest he kept Queenie Goldstein waiting.

“If you won’t be long, may we go together?”

Graves paused in his writing and looked at the younger man. Newt has his eyes downcast and his shoulders hunched, sinking into the armchair and appearing small despite his above average height. The young Magizoologist looked just as how Graves had anticipated, and after a moment of contemplation, the Director wasn’t sure what he had been searching for.

“Sure, Mr. Scamander,” he eventually said, returning to his reports. “It will only be a few minutes.”

Perhaps feeling too uncomfortable sitting so close to Graves without speaking, Newt relocated to the futon by the bookshelves and preoccupied himself with reading the bindings of the various tomes. The minutes passed, with only the soft scratches of quill against parchment scattered in the silence between them. Nearing the end of his report with all but his signature left to provide, Graves had almost forgotten about his guest until—

_Graves was in his office, that much was clear, except—except he was in the lap of someone else who was sitting in his chair, behind his desk. Back to chest, Graves couldn’t see the man, but he could see everything the man was doing to him as one hand pinched his nipples, alternating between left and right in a lazy but unpredictable pattern._

_Graves was in a debauched state of undress, his shirt and vest opened and bunched at his elbows, restraining his arms to his sides. His pants were gone but his socks and garters remained, giving him a clear view of his painfully hard cock, bobbing helplessly and smearing wetness on his belly. He whined as long fingers teased feather light touches down his length before stopping to roll and tug at his balls. The cock buried in his ass remained frustratingly still even as he shivered, squirmed, and clenched around the intrusion._

_“Did you lock the door?” A kiss at his ear was followed by a whisper—low and teasing and decidedly British._ _“Or remember a silencing charm?”_

_The hand working his chest splayed across him, fingertips brushing over both tightened buds. The other meanwhile reached beneath him to trace along his stretched rim._

_“Imagine your Aurors hearing you beg and scream," the voice continued, "And they’ll rush in the moment I bring you over the edge, see you come all over yourself._

_Graves gasped as a hand finally, finally closed around his length. And with three measured tugs, Graves came violently, broken wails pulled from his throat as_ _white, hot pleasure flooded though his veins._

_“Darling, what an exquisite picture you make.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I am also iiscos on tumblr~


	4. Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm always so envious of people who can write amazing smut (and I love reading it), but the past few days only reminded me of how much I kind of hate writing smut (even though I wish that weren't the case)
> 
> I never intended this fic to exceed 5 or 6k, but hell it simply refused to end. Thank you so much to everyone who has read and commented. Your patience and encouragements meant everything <3

Percival Graves was a reasonable man, despite his reputation as a stern enforcer of the law.

A chief protector of the wizarding world, and with the safety of civilians at stake, Graves often dealt with a heavy hand. He found sense in applying harsh, result-oriented methods, but he was never one to be swayed by prejudice, or to view the world as plainly black and white.

While not particularly generous with forgiveness, the Director prided himself in his fairness and propriety. His standards for his Aurors were high but not unreachable, and his responses to aggravation and threats were always measured, never misplaced.

Justice for him stemmed from an innate and unwavering moral code, in lieu of the rights and wrongs dictated by the status quo. Graves was not a blind follower of a military dogma or of executive orders. His sternness was rather a personal choice.

Despite his best efforts, Graves found little success in addressing this _issue_ with Newt Scamander, an issue that only Graves has the misfortune of acknowledging. No matter how incessant or debased, private thoughts could never be considered a crime—or even harassment—especially when they were intruded upon without the consent of the owner.

Graves had no right to be angry at Newt, so he directed his frustration towards himself and his own inability to fortify such a glaring weakness. And adding insult to injury was his previous commitment to the Goldstein sisters, to spending his foreseeable downtime inside Scamander’s suitcase.

“Inhale, count to three, exhale, count to five.”

Graves wondered at what point during their interactions had Queenie Goldstein deemed them intimate enough to hold hands.

“Remember, your magic should be no more than a gentle caress around the flame,” Queenie continued, her hands soft and feather-light around his own. In the space above his palms floated a wax candle, charmed so that even the faintest breeze would extinguish the small flickering flame. “Use your magic to shield the wind, but too much will smother the fire.”

The task shouldn’t be so difficult, just like keeping out Newt Scamander’s humiliating nonsense shouldn’t be so difficult. The fire flickered at the slightest hint of frustration that marred Graves’ affected state of calm, and the Director quickly cleared his thoughts before the flame could dwindle completely.

“Think of this barrier as the barrier to your mind,” Queenie encouraged, “You want to keep other people out without smothering yourself or your natural Legilimency. Each time a thought slips through, instead of fortifying your defenses, try readjusting them. Equilibrate your magic rather than adding more to what’s already there.”

When Tina first insisted on mind training, Graves had imagined seasoned healers specialized in Legilimency, casting powerful spells that would assault his mental wards, forcing him to adapt to the ruthless intrusions. What Graves did not expect was flowers and potpourri, and Queenie Goldstein’s bubbly demeanor as she insisted, for the fourth time today, “Oh, honey, you’re doing a great job. You will be wonderful at this in no time.”

_“I stayed by her during the hardest parts of her mind training. I know what it will entail, and you cannot do this alone.”_

Graves recalled Tina’s dire warnings during her outburst so many days ago. Was this truly the hardest part of Queenie’s mind training? Or was Tina suggesting that this would be the hardest part for _him_.

Despite feeling vaguely offended by the prospect, Graves had to concede that Tina might have had a point. What was transpiring at the moment had to be the most counterintuitive exercise Graves had ever partook in. And thus, Tina found good precedence—he supposed begrudgingly—for assuming he would never complete such tasks without coercion from others.

A short gasp, followed by a muffled giggle, pulled Graves from his thoughts, but he managed to regain his composure in time to keep the flame alive. Once he finally looked up from his crossed-legged position on the grass, Tina had regained her composure as well.

“Good afternoon, Director,” she said with pronounced formality, her face a blank canvas.

“Goldstein,” Graves returned, as dignified as any man with a garland of flowers in his hair could manage. Queenie had insisted that the scent from the ferns and peony would soothe the subconscious, and the best way to apply their magical properties was to wear them around his head.

Graves had long since given up on protesting matters such as these.

“How is the mind training?”

“It’s fine,” Graves said, narrowing his eyes at the near imperceptible twitch at the corner of Tina’s lips.

“I thought Queenie suggested last time to wear more comfortable clothes.”

“I’m not wearing a tie.”

The following giggle came from the younger Goldstein sister, who unfortunately, lacked the years of severe Auror discipline to school her expression in a timely or convincing manner. Graves frowned as the fire between his palms wilted to a thin wisp of smoke.

“Is there something else you would like to say,” Graves continued, holding onto his dignity with defiant stubbornness. He was still Tina’s superior. She was still obligated to address him with respect no matter what kind of flowers he might be wearing…or might smell like.

“Right,” Tina said, posture stiffening even as glimpses of amusement evaded her professionalism, “I was wondering if you would be interested in some tea and biscuits. Newt has prepared them in his cottage.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely, doesn’t it, Mr. Graves?” Queenie exclaimed before Graves could speak and happily continued before he could answer. “We will be there shortly.”

Incredulous, Graves was unsure how he should respond to such unexpected and unwarranted displays of familiarity. Tina smiled as she turned on her heals, leaving before Graves could make sense of this new development.

Inside the cottage, Graves sat in the living area as the Goldstein sisters and the Magizoologist rustled about a kitchen certainly too small for three grown adults. The Director listened to their banters and laughter. They were all so young and radiant with life, so generous and kind in their naivety. And Graves—beneath the stern mask that hid his age, solitude, and scars—felt out of place, an intruder.

Newt was the first to stumble out of the kitchen, smiling sheepishly once he regained his balance.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Newt said, eyes evading him as he set a tea platter on the table. “My creatures found their way to the biscuits. Tina insisted on making more, and well, I don’t think she’s a very good baker.”

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Scamander.” The smile Graves returned was reserved but not unwelcoming, which Newt evidently found encouraging enough to sit in the vacant spot beside the Director.

“One sugar, no milk,” Newt said, “That is how you like your tea, is it not? Even though I know you don’t drink tea often.”

“That is correct.” Graves raised his eyebrows.

“T-Theseus told me,” Newt fumbled for an explanation, face reddening at the poor lie that both he and Graves were aware of fully. Theseus Scamander was not someone who spared attention to trivial matters such as how an American friend might choose to take his tea during infrequent meetings with British colleagues. 

“Or more accurately,” the Magizoologist amended, “The last time we had tea—with Theseus also there—I noticed that this was how you took yours.”

“That is kind of you.” Graves heard himself say. “Thank you.”

“Y-You’re welcome, sir,” Newt managed to sputter, turning even brighter shades of red. “I—We are all very happy that you could join us.”

Graves stared at the Magizoologist, mind drawing blank as he struggled to make sense of the dichotomy. How could it be possible that this fumbling man before him, with his stutters and shy displays of affection, was the same perverted miscreant who had tormented Graves for weeks, whose most basal desire was to dominate him completely?

Was this some kind of nefarious trick, Graves thought irately, to coax him into complacency before Scamander revealed himself to be the sexual deviant he was? The theory sounded as ridiculous as Graves felt at the moment.

Newt Scamander, as a person, simply did not make sense.

The Director lost track of the amount of time he had spent glaring at the young Magizoologist, until Scamander— _still_ not meeting his eyes, for Merlin’s sake—raised a tentative hand to Graves, slowly brushing past a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of place.

Graves froze, stunned by the sheer audacity. He did not flinch away, because flinching—reasoned his overactive subconscious—would be a sign of fear and submission, and Newt Scamander certainly posed no threat to a wizard as powerful as Graves. In fact, Graves could easily think of five different spells—wordless and wandless both—that would completely incapacitate Scamander on the spot.

But not flinching away—would that convey a challenge, or even permission? Would lack of ramification encourage him to go further?

Graves frowned. Perhaps, he had no choice but to hex Scamander—a wandless, untrained civilian.

The Director was still mulling over this conundrum when Newt pulled away, smiling in his usual shy and beseeching manner. He held something before Graves, as if offering a proposal, which Graves soon realized was a small white flower that somehow must have evaded his notice, when he rid himself of the foliage Queenie had earlier stuck in his hair.

~~

Heavy caseloads kept Graves occupied for the following week, so much so that he was obligated to push back his meetings with Queenie twice. A failed raid resulted in an Auror being taken hostage. The young man was recovered alive the next day, but vital information was undoubtedly extracted and the rest of his memories erased.

The incident left Graves in a mood so foul that even the most obtuse of his colleagues and subordinates knew to stay clear—that is, everyone except for Newt Scamander. During the days he was summoned for creature consultation, the Magizoologist seemed to actively seek out Graves, under the pretense of discussing matters that his secretary could very well have managed in his place. Graves kept his interactions with Newt curt and professional, despite the small gifts the younger man would quietly leave at the end of each visit—a pastry, a cup of coffee, a sandwich if Graves was working late.

Gone were the sordid fantasies, but in their place were undulating waves of longing and disappointment that crashed against Graves’ barriers like ocean against piers.

Frustrated beyond endurance, Graves knew he would have to _talk_ to the Magizoologist, lest he abandoned any hope of a working relationship henceforth. The Director only wished that the solution was as easy as shouting to Scamander, _“For Merlin’s sake, stop thinking so loudly, you absolute idiot!”_

Because Newt _was_ an idiot, for developing such an embarrassing, schoolboy crush on Graves—the notion, even now, sounding absurd. Graves could think of nothing underlying his words or actions in the past few weeks that could be interpreted, even vaguely, as justification for such unwarranted attention.

Newt would realize his error soon enough, the Director thought dourly. A damaged man living a lonely life, drained to the core by the utter importance of his work, Graves was not someone to be desired. And never once had he pretended otherwise.

“Good evening, Mr. Graves.” Scamander appeared at the entrance of his office then, as if summoned.

“Good evening,” Graves responded without looking up from his paperwork. “Is there something you need, Mr. Scamander?”

“I just wished to thank you.” He heard the Magizoologist say. “I met with Protection of Magical Species today, and—I know this meeting would not have been possible had it not been for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” Graves replied shortly, “I hope you were able to find a solution to your problems.”

“I—yes, for the most part, as you would know—” Newt fumbled, before hesitating. “May I come in, sir?”

“Sure,” the Director nodded and listened to the approaching footsteps that ensued.

“I heard that you vouched for me,” Newt continued once seated in the chair before Graves’ desk. “Thank you for that too.”

“Don’t feel too relieved, Mr. Scamander,” said Graves, “Now that culpability will likely fall on me if anything were to go awry, I will personally ensure that your paperwork is complete and your wards are up to standard.”

Newt let out a surprised little laugh. “And here I thought I had your utmost trust in my capabilities.”

“You are always welcomed to prove me wrong,” Graves remarked dryly, although amusement lurked beneath his aloof demeanor.

A few beats of silence followed, during which Graves made an honest effort to _equilibrate_ his magic against Scamander’s loud thinking, before the Magizoologist spoke again.

“Will you come for dinner?”

The sudden question halted Graves in his writing, although it did not divert his eyes from the report. “I’m afraid not,” he replied after a moment of consideration, “I canceled my appointment with Ms. Goldstein this evening.”

“You could still come for dinner,” Newt suggested.

“That would be an inconvenience to both Ms. Goldsteins,” remarked Graves, “Tina, in particular, who is an Auror under my command. She has already cooked more meals for me than appropriate, and she should feel no obligation to continue.”

“Without them then. What about just me?”

Graves looked up from his paperwork, expecting adverted eyes, but what he found instead was sharp hazel-green locked unto his. The surprising intensity that bore down on him caught him off guard, and all he could say stupidly in return was, “What?”

“If you do not have prior commitments, that is.”

Graves frowned, because obviously he did not have prior commitments. He was on course to missing dinner completely with the amount of reports in need of reviewing after the disastrous raid.

“You won’t have to leave your office if you are terribly busy. I can cook for us.” Newt tapped his briefcase for emphasis before adding—with a touch of reservation, “I’m a fairly good cook, if I do say so myself.”

Graves felt his jaw work, but no words materialized until his third try. “Why are you doing this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Newt’s lips tilted into a lopsided grin, somehow charming despite his obvious trepidation. “I fancy you.”

Graves stared at the Magizoologist, flummoxed. The past few days had been utter chaos at MACUSA, and what little energy Graves could spare, he had spent addressing his own inadequacies that brought knowledge of Scamander’s infatuation in the first place. He never thought Scamander would have the gall to ask him outright on a date. This turn of events was unforeseen, and thus, unanticipated for.

After what felt like a century of silence, Newt spoke again, frowning. “Have I said something that offended you?”

“No—” Graves grimaced, pinching close his eyes as he rubbed away the ache blooming at his temples. “That is not what this is.”

“I can tell when I’ve made someone upset,” Newt insisted with a touch of petulance, “It’s just that—I don’t understand why certain things would be upsetting. You could say no. I would understand.”

The hazel-green eyes blinked away, and Scamander looked so utterly pitiful with his hunched shoulders and dejected sigh, that Graves hardly thought it was fair. After another long moment of heavy deliberation, the Director finally conceded.

“If it truly is not an inconvenience for you, why don’t we talk over dinner?”

~~

Scamander disappeared into his suitcase for the next hour and half, during which Graves made frustratingly little progress on his work. The scents of mixed spices soon wafted from Scamander’s suitcase—another damnable distraction—as Graves’ stomach protested the lack of care he had afforded himself in the past few days.

Graves gathered his work once Newt returned to fetch him for dinner, but he was not rude enough to actually bring work to the table. The dishes Newt prepared diverged from what Graves normally would seek for himself, grains and spiced curry seasoned with herbs endemic to distant parts of the world. Southeast Asia, the Magizoologist would go on to explain.

“It’s very good,” Graves said politely after taking his first bite.

Newt, across from the table, smiled shyly at the complement.

They ate mostly in silence, although Newt’s internal voice was far from quiet. Graves didn’t wish to intrude, but Scamander made his attempts at preserving both of their dignities increasingly more difficult as the meal stretched on.

Newt was nervous, petrified, hopeful, and utterly smitten all at once. And Graves found him almost sweet, the way he observed and internalized every subtle detail, every glimpse of emotion Graves might have let slip. Newt desired Graves very much, that much was certain. Graves frowned, wondering if the younger man would continue to desire him after knowing the truth.

After dinner, Graves offered to do the cleaning, rolling his sleeves to his elbows as he casted efficient cleaning charms on the plates and cutlery floating about the kitchen. He found Newt waiting for him patiently in the living area upon his return, undoubtedly in anticipation of the conversation Graves had promised.

“I—Thank you for dinner,” the Director began, and then, faltered.

“You’re very welcome, sir,” Newt said and waited for Graves to continue, because obviously, he had more to address than simply gratitude for the meal.

Graves cleared his throat and took the seat beside the Magizoologist, leaving a respectable distance between them. He stared ahead to the opposite wall, shoulders tense and spine rigid as he struggled to navigate the conversation.

“I have not been perfectly honest with you,” Graves eventually said, “The purpose of my meetings with Ms. Queenie Goldstein was not simply for meditation. Ms. Goldstein and I—we share a similar ability that I have found quite difficult to govern—an ability that I only recently have developed. Ms. Goldstein has been offering me her expertise. That is to say, I have been aware of your feelings, Mr. Scamander, for quite some time now. And I apologize for intruding on your thoughts before you were willing to part with them.”

“Oh,” Newt said, frowning as the words sank in.

“I understand if you are upset,” continued Graves, “You should be. This had been an unforgivable breech of your privacy, and I am truly sorry.”

Newt let out a laugh. “I would be upset, but it sounds like you’ve done everything you could to try and fix it. I can’t be mad at you for something that’s not your fault. And besides, it was always my intention to tell you how I feel.”

“I—well,” Graves felt his face flush, taken aback by the younger man’s generosity. “Thank you for your understanding.”

He turned to the Magizoologist just in time to catch the shift in his demeanor, his fond expression giving away into one of realization, and then, horror. “H—How long have you been able to read my mind?”

“Since the international conference,” Graves admitted, “At the time, I was unsure as to whom those— _thoughts_ —belonged. But I’ve learned since that they belonged to you.”

Newt blanched, before reddening profusely. “I—I’m so sorry—”

“Do not apologize, Mr. Scamander. You have done nothing wrong.”

“It was just—those speeches were so _boring_ ,” lamented the Magizoologist.

“One of those speeches was mine.”

“I know, but—Is this why you were upset?” Newt demanded, “That is not all I think about when I think about you. I want more than that. I want to take you to dinner and the cinema. I want to date you properly.”

“No, that’s not why—” Graves began and found he had no words beyond that.

“Then why do you look—the way you do?” the Magizoologist frowned. “Troubled.”

“I guess I don’t understand,” Graves said slowly, more to himself than to Scamander at this point, “Why you would wish that in the first place.”

“Why I fancy you?” Newt blinked at Graves. “Do you really need for me to explain why?”

Graves frowned. He didn’t _need_ Newt to do anything—other than, perhaps, exerting some kind of effort in making their lives tolerable in light of the humiliating circumstance they had found themselves in.

“Or do you wish to know why I would like to do those particular things with you?” Newt asked instead.

And no, Graves thought, face burning. That was the opposite direction of what he considered tolerable.

“It’s just what I prefer,” Scamander admitted with a smile—innocent enough at first glance, but something devious belied the sweet exterior “We don’t have to do that, if you don’t want to. But I think you would enjoy it.”

Newt rose to his feet before the Director could respond, and in three long strides, the Magizoologist now stood behind where Graves sat, firm hands clamping down on his shoulders and keeping him rooted to the spot.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Graves shifted beneath the hold. He was aiming for demanding rather than questioning, but he knew he had missed his mark by an octave.

“Trying something,” Newt hummed noncommittally, as his hands began to knead, deft fingers pressing into the tense muscles of his shoulders.

The groan that escaped Graves was horrific.

Something about their dynamic shifted then, the way Scamander chuckled behind him, a low rumble in his throat that sent shivers down the Director’s spine.

“Let me take care of you, Mr. Graves,” the last sentence came as a purr, and Graves suddenly felt hot and stifled beneath his clothes.

“That is not necessary—” His well-crafted protest all but died as Newt pushed his thumbs into the sides of his neck, applying just the right amount of pressure to ease the soreness there. “Sc—Scamander—”

Scamander hushed him with a chaste kiss below his ear, hot breath tickling his skin. “You are still so tense. Try to relax.”

A familiar rage blossomed in his chest at the unfair criticism. How could he be anything but tense, given the situation he was in. He attempted to free himself with renewed resolve, but the peal of laughter from Scamander caught him by surprise.

“You don’t think you can enjoy yourself without being in control,” Newt offered sensibly. “You are not used to someone else taking the lead.”

“Of course not—” Graves bit back the rest of his complaint, not wanting to sound peevish. He did not get to where he was in his life or career by _letting someone else take the lead_. Even in the bedroom, the idea of being pinned down, ravished, devoured by another—and enjoying it without shame—was preposterous.

And yet, here he was, flushed and half-hard from just a shoulder massage, fists clenching uselessly by his sides, wanting to throw the younger man off but never quite reaching that point. 

“But you are in control, Mr. Graves. You very much are,” Newt cooed into his ear. The hands at his shoulder ceased their massaging before sliding down his front, pressing into the muscles of his chest. “I’m only doing this because you are letting me. If you say stop, I will. You are in complete control.”

Graves furrowed his brows, trying to formulate a rebuttal—a task he found increasingly difficult given that any semblance of rational thought had been elusive since the beginning of this evening.

“You are in control, Mr. Graves,” Newt hummed, nipping at the sensitive skin below his ear. “Even now you are.”

Before the last sentence reached its end, invisible bonds circled around Graves’ wrists, pulling his arms up before folding them behind his head, effectively restraining them to the back of the couch.

“What are you— _ah_!” The rest of his sentence breaks off into a gasp, as strong hands traveled down to his abdomen and then up over his chest, sharply pinching his nipples through the fabric of his dress shirt.

“Beautiful,” Newt praised before gripping Graves by his jaw, pulling him into a furious kiss that left him lightheaded.

Nimble fingers work open his shirt before he could gather his wits, followed by possessive hands sliding over his now bare skin.

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” Newt purred, “Do you want me to stop, Mr. Graves?”

Graves wasn’t listening to Newt anymore—his head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut—his mind overwhelmed by the logical shame and the inexplicable desire to be touched. Only when fingers closed around his nipples again did he realize that Newt expected an answer to his previous question.

“No, _please_ —” He replied in a voice he barely recognized as his own.

Newt placed a kiss to his temple before rounding the couch, pushing apart thighs that spread far too easily and situating himself on the floor between them.

“Look at you,” Newt grinned up at him, working loose his belt and fly. “Aroused from a simple massage. You’ve been needing a good fuck, am I right? Something to take the edge off.”

There was no sense of urgency in his movement, as if giving Graves plenty of time to back out—which honestly made this experience all the more degrading as his cock twitched helplessly in need.

For a long moment, Scamander did nothing—his cheek resting on the inside of Graves’ thigh as he simply watched the Director shiver beneath the weight of his stare, cock flushed against his navel.

“So, what would you like me to do?” Scamander sounded nonchalant, almost airy. “You are in control after all.”

“S-Stop talking,” Graves hissed.

He could snap those bonds—he really could if he truly wished. He could put an end to this humiliating affair and stun Scamander for good measure. He could even reverse their positions and force Newt to finish what he had started. Mortifyingly, he chose—and was still choosing—to stay put, waiting for Newt to continue, _wanting_ him to.

He just needed Scamander to shut up for a moment so he could think, but for a different reason entirely, the Magizoologist was only too happy to oblige.

Graves cried out as Newt descended on him, tongue laving from root to tip before swirling at the crown. Graves’ hips stuttered without his control, but the grip on his waist was firm, holding him still as Newt took him inch by inch, hollowing out his cheek as he sucked.

“Newt— _A-Ah_!” Graves was unsure what he had wanted to convey, but that mattered little as the rest of his sentence broke off in a long, breathless moan. When Newt suddenly pulled away, he whined in frustration—hips thrusting and searching shamelessly for more contact.

“Shh, don’t worry. I’ve got you,” Newt cooed, lifting Graves slightly so he could shimmy his pants and trousers down to his thighs. Graves gasped when a slick finger circled his entrance and jolted when he was breached by the tip.

“No—wait, no—” he stammered, twisting away for the first time.

Newt relented, frowning up at him. “No?”

Graves swallowed thickly, eyes hot with shame. Was he supposed to reveal _now_ that he had never had a man there before? And after all that he had allowed to happen, how was he to explain that perhaps, he did not have the capacity to experience _another_ new thing—as if this night as a whole had not been humiliating enough.

“No, it is,” Newt said, pressing a soft kiss to his hip. “Maybe another time, yeah?”

Newt licked the pad of his thumb, before rubbing it over his entrance, petting him without breaching.

“Is this okay?” Newt asked, and _shit_ , how could he still sound so earnest and sweet, all the while teasing Graves’ asshole for fuck’s sake.

Graves nodded, not trusting the steadiness of his own voice, and Newt grinned before returning his mouth to his cock.

Graves did not last much longer after that, the sheer force of his orgasm blinding as he pulsed deep down Newt’s throat. Newt sucked and swallowed around him, releasing him only after he shuddered from oversensitivity. Still boneless from his post-orgasm high, Graves barely registered as Newt crawled up to straddle him around his thighs.

The fist in his hair forced him to watch as Newt pulled himself out above him, grunting as he pumped himself to completion, ribbons of come streaking across Graves’ bare chest.

Afterwards, Newt dutifully severed the bonds and casted cleaning spells on them both, before returning to his previous position beside Graves on the couch, where he—incredibly—appeared to regress back to his usual, bashful self.

“Was that alright?” he asked in a soft voice that implied the answer Graves gave would be important.

“I suppose so—yes,” Graves said absently, not particularly in favor of evaluating, at this moment, what had just transpired between them. Or what he might have revealed about himself as a result.

There really was nothing left to say apart from that, Graves decided as he rose to leave with a polite, parting word on his lips. But Newt rose with him, blocking his path to the exit.

“Will you stay the night?”

Graves blinked at the Magizoologist, frowning, “I don’t believe that will be necessary or convenient.”

“Oh, okay,” Newt said with a touch of disappointment, “Another night?”

“Sure, perhaps.”

“I—I meant what I said before,” insisted the Magizoologist, “That I don’t want just a one-off. I would like to date you, very much.”

“Well, take me on a date, then,” Graves said and was surprised by how easily those words came, “Find me after work around seven. You may choose the venue although I ask for the establishment to be discreet. Preferably, No-Maj, as per reason stated before.”

Details, planning, logic, and order—those came naturally to Graves in a way that warmth and affection often eluded. But Newt smiled regardless, as if he found his sternness and rigidity endearing.

“Of course, Mr. Graves. Thank you—sir,” the Magizoologist replied, head ducking as a faint flush returned to his cheeks. “May I call you Percival?”

Graves chuckled as he straightened his tie, reaching for his coat. “One night at a time, Mr. Scamander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments are loved
> 
> Also find me on tumblr as iiscos <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! xx


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